Sunday Morning Coming Down
by damnitjillkatherine
Summary: A Sunday morning shootout.


Sunday Morning Coming Down

Disclaimer: All Rodriguez's.

Rating: PG-13. You know Sands' dirty mouth.

Summary: A Sunday morning showdown.

* * *

"Are you alright?"

Sands sighed exasperatedly; of all the guitar-picking, gun-toting idiots in Mexico, he had to get stuck with this particular one. Call it a wild shot in the dark, like everything else these days, but he was pretty damn sure he didn't _look _alright. He gingerly rotated his head toward the direction from with El's asinine inquiry had come.

"Yes, and at the same time, a huge resounding _no_," he replied irritably.

Now, like in so many times in their short yet eventful history together, Sands waited in El's silent confusion, debating whether to wait for the question he knew was coming, or to just cut out the middleman and launch into the explanation of his wit that he knew the mariachi was going to need. He decided on the latter; pain made him impatient.

"The yes is in reference to the fact that I'm still alive," he started snappishly, "although, now that I think about it, might not be so 'alright.' The gigantic fucking _no_, however, refers to the large gash in my right cheek that I assume is still bleeding, the severely twisted left wrist that probably wont hold a gun for a while, the half dozen, give or take, broken ribs that are currently impeding my breathing, and the bullet that I gather is still lodged in my right thigh." He frowned and winced; his tirade had been painful to his ribs.

"And to top it all off, I have to piss like a racehorse," he finished, sounding petulant.

El had to laugh; even when badly hurt, the former CIA agent still retained his unique, to say the least, sense of humor. He could just hear his mamá saying, "You should have gone before we left!" The musician stopped chuckling as Sands tried to stand up.

"Sit," he ordered firmly, "you'll make your injuries worse."

"Yes, mother," the blind man retorted sarcastically. Since when did El give a damn what happened to him, anyways? He kept trying to stand. "Where the hell are we? Ow! Inconsiderate fuckass, that _hurt_," he muttered; the other man had pushed him, none too gently, back down into a sitting position.

"We are in a church," he sternly informed his damaged partner, "so watch your language."

Sands replied wordlessly by giving El the finger, which only made him chuckle more.

"It's not nice to laugh at a man in pain, y'know. I should piss all over those stupid jingly pants of yours. Why didn't _you _get shot once or twice? And where the hell are my cigarettes?" he complained, patting and searching the pockets of his black outfit. El constantly told him that he was completely loco for wearing such a getup in the blistering Mexican heat, but Sands refused to give them up. He knew he must an interesting, slightly intimidating figure stalking down the street; the man in black. He fought off a random urge to sing "Ring of Fire." This ridiculous country sure felt like a ring of fire most days, and he had fallen ass over teacups into it. The sound of something being thrown at him snapped him back to bloody reality, and he deftly snatched it out of the air; his cigarettes.

"They fell out when you flipped over that pew," offered El offhandedly, as if this was an everyday occurrence, and resisted the laugh that was rising with the mental image. He had almost laughed out loud when it had happened, but that would have royally pissed off the already unstable American.

Sands mumbled a grudging 'thanks' around the coffin nail he had already stuck in his mouth. He lit it expertly, tucked the pack back into the beat up pocket of the even more beat up shirt, and attempted to stand once more. This time El helped him up and held on to him as he leaned uncertainly on his one good leg. Fixing his sunglasses with his uninjured hand, he wondered fleetingly how beat up the old things were; they had seen all the action he hadn't, and were most likely scratched beyond recognition. He also wondered how the hell they were going to get out of this place and patched up.

"I don't suppose you're a Blue Cross and Blue Shield member, amigo," he said lightly, leaning heavily on the tall Mexican. Typical confused-mariachi silence. "Nevermind. American thing. We're not going to be able to waltz casually into a hospital, are we?" That registered.

"No, I am afraid not. But there is a... First-Aid Kit in the car," he replied, using the American term that Sands had unintentionally taught him through excessive use of it. The man sounded almost cheerful.

"Oh peachy. Dr. El to the rescue, once again. Or would that be Dr. Mariachi? Do you even _have_ a real name?" he griped. Sands was not particularly thrilled with the idea of having to remove his pants so that El could tend to the bullet wound in this thigh. He had been stitched up by the guitar- and gun-callused hands enough times in the past to know that it wasn't exactly something to look forward to. El, however, knew the incapacitated gringo well enough by now to mention:

"There is also a bottle or two of tequila under the front seat..."

"Oh goody," replied the limping pistolero, sounding decidedly less sarcastic. "Shall we then?"

They hobbled out the church door into what was blinding sunlight for only one of them.

"Oh wait."

Sands detached himself from El's helpful grip, found the wall of the church, supported himself against it with one hand and reached downwards with the other.

"I still have to piss."

* * *

A/N: As you may have guessed, there's a quote from A Knight's Tale in this. I couldn't resist; it sounded like a Sands-type thing to say. That line belongs to... whoever owns A Knight's Tale. Not me. I'm not that original. :)

The phrase "inconsiderate fuckass" is from a fic I absolutely LOVE called Reception Party, by the _incredibly_ talented guede-mazaka (that dash is supposed to be an underline dash thingy, but for some reason that won't work.). In her story, the line is "I'm blind, you inconsiderate fuckass." and it makes me laugh _every_ time I read it. If she doesn't like me using it, I will change it _immediately_.

Um, 'Blue Cross and Blue Shield' belongs to themselves, I should think. Is First Aid Kit a brand name? If it is, it's not mine.

As for the title, it's the name of a Johnny Cash song, as is Ring of Fire, so they belong to the original Man in Black.


End file.
